RIP Ballys

June 15, 2006


So my gym closed today. Bally’s as a whole is still monopolizing the fitness industry, but my humble location, Bally’s Europa closed its doors.

Europa has been the only constant in my life since I moved to Chicago 8 years ago. It’s small, comfortable and unpretentious; filled with average Joe’s working out on their lunch break or after work. The past 4 years I’ve worked right across the street from Europa. The convenience meant having the time to get my workout done at lunch and not having to wait until after work where there was plenty of time to talk myself out of working out.

This past year, my friend Jen and I began working out together at lunch. It was a great break from the day, nice to have a partner to chat with and to visibly cringe with when the carefree nekkid old ladies skittered across the locker room floor.

Jen was out of town this week and missed our last workout at Europa. I totally took a picture of myself working out and sent it to her cell phone. I’m not going to lie, I got teary. Like I said, it was the only constant in my life since moving to Chicago.

Bally’s Europa got me through a called off engagement, multiple break ups with the same person (Thanks Cardio Kick Boxing), the “I fucking HATE grad school and I’m leaving debate, a new boyfriend, it filled the time between work and rehearsals, saved me from shopping during lunch, made it easy to avoid forced office socialization, worked out wedding planning stress, helped me learn my lines for every show/scene/monologue that I’ve ever done, made me realize that the people who type closed captions are not perfect typists, fed me multiple protein bars for my dinners on the run, ahhhhhh Bally’s Europa, you were so good to me.

The members have the option of going to the Bally’s across the Loop. I call it Circus Ballys because it’s so noisy, crowded and smelly and don’t know how anyone can focus. Besides, I could never do lunchtime workouts if I had to get over there. That leaves Gay Ballys or Dixie/Wixie Ballys. Dixies and Wixies are essentially our neighborhood yuppies. Nothing will match Europa, the most unsexy, unhip, comfortable as your favorite old t-shit gym I’ve ever known.

Love and props to the following Europa regulars who made me feel sane, grounded and terribly amused.

The middle aged lady that put on perfume pre-workout.

The skittish midget who work out faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.

The same midget who made noises like a dog sneeze when on the elipitcal.

Yes, the same midget who wore a swimsuit to workout in and didn’t care when the straps fell down.

The lady who ran on the treadmill with toilet paper hanging out of her pants.

My buddy Marvin who works in my building and works out at Europa.

Maggie the trainer for her jolly disposition.

The man who wore such short shorts and long tank tops that I forever thought he was pantless.

The man who went so fast on the stair stepper he could have toppled over at any time.

The really skinny gay dude with the most amazing triceps.

The soccer mom lady who was the most dedicated treadmill runner I saw at Europa.

The hyper, fake mammed fitness queen who carried around a 35lb back pack while working out to train for a hike in the Grand Canyon.

The nekkid except for a workout turban lady who won the “let it all hang out” award.

The postal worker who worked out in his uniform.

All the super heavy people I’ve seen (all middle aged or older) push themselves to remarkable weight loss through their dedication.

The grunting mustached dude.

The novice turned body building competitor lady.

All the people who weren’t jerks when I told them they were on the machine I signed up for.

All the people who left behind their InStyle, Spin, Rolling Stone, Glamour, Self magazines because God knows Ballys only had ripped copies of Skiing and Divorce.

RIP Europa. You were good to me and I’ll miss you.

Yes, I KNOW it’s a gym. I’m sensitive.